


Cowards Against the Flesh, Part I - Before Eurus

by satin_doll



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Before Eurus, Before The Infamous Phone Call, Between Seasons/Series, Confused Molly, F/M, Part I, Rape/Non-con Elements, Sex, Sherlock a bit dark
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-04
Updated: 2017-03-04
Packaged: 2018-09-28 07:43:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,662
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10079918
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/satin_doll/pseuds/satin_doll





	

The lab is silent but for the hiss of heat through the air vents and the occasional tinkle of glass as Molly puts away the last of the equipment. She wipes a drop of water from the counter with the sleeve of her lab coat, and turns to make her way to her office to finish up her paperwork before catching the bus home. 

When she turns, he is standing directly behind her. 

“Oh! Sherlock! You sca...what are you doing here?” Her voice echoes her feelings, a confusing mix of gladness, caution, nervousness. She sighs, continues as if her chatty voice will save her from having to deal with yet another anxiety producing encounter with him. She knows it’s a futile effort. “I was just finishing up and on my way to...well, you know. Finishing up. Stuff. Like I always do…”

He stares down at her, his face unreadable, says nothing, but pulls off his gloves and scarf and then the Belstaff, placing them all on the countertop. Molly suddenly stops her babbling and attempts a little smile. He doesn’t smile back, but steps closer to her, still silent. 

Her voice is very small. “Is there...is there something you wanted…?” 

Sherlock is different. She has no idea what happened during and immediately after his short exile, which was interrupted when the alarming image of Moriarty appeared all over the city. The experience has changed him, however, and perhaps not for the better. He is less apt to cut someone down with a remark or personal deductions, but when he does there is a viciousness to it far beyond his former arrogance and superior attitude. He watches everyone intently, suspiciously, even her, his eyes icy and penetrating. She finds it a wee bit frightening, to be honest, and her shyness and awkwardness with him has returned. All the progress she had made - that _they_ had made towards a workable friendship - has vanished. 

None of this has stopped the rush of physical and emotional responses she deals with when he is close to her. If anything, it has made them worse. There is a darkness to him now and, God help her, she reacts to it as if it was an aphrodisiac.

He takes one more step towards her, bringing him so close she is forced to tilt her head back to look at his face. He is still staring down at her, an intensity to his expression that she’d not noticed before. His pale eyes are overly bright, pupils dilated. His jaw is tight. Molly drops her gaze, swallows, watches the rise and fall of his chest with his breath. She backs away one step - and he follows. She looks up at his face again, beginning to panic, opens her mouth to speak. “Sherlock…?”

It is so quick she has no time to react before he is on her, his mouth crushing hers, one arm tightly around her waist trapping her hard against his lean body, his other hand at the back of her neck holding her in place. When she feels his tongue against her lips, she tries to pull back, but his grip is strong. He forces her head back and her mouth opens to him. 

The hard kiss seems to last forever. When he finally breaks it his mouth moves down over her jaw to her throat and he bends her back farther. Her hands are gripping his arms, trying to pull them away, with no effect. She twists in his grasp, which serves to grind her body against him, produces a growl from deep in his throat. He turns and forces her back against the counter, one hand sliding down to cup her arse, the other grabbing her hair as his mouth captures hers again. 

She can’t get loose. He is holding her too tightly. And inside her panic and confusion, her body is responding to him. The feel of his hands on her, his mouth, his erection pressing against her - she has dreamed of this for so long, wanted it all so badly. But not like this, she tries to tell herself through the chaos in her brain, not like this…

Her body isn’t listening. Whether it’s fear response or desire, she is wet, her skin is tingling, her mouth opening to his finally, her tongue searching. Waves of heat wash through her and her legs open. His knees bend and he pulls her down to the floor as she relaxes against him. 

His mouth returns to her throat, moves lower. He pushes the lab coat away, cups one breast through her shirt as he rubs his face against the other, then mouths it. She is whimpering now, soft little cries, as she slides her fingers into his hair, presses his face harder against her. He is silent except for his harsh breaths. Her legs are wrapped around him and he ruts against her through their clothes, and waves of fire spread from between her legs into her belly and up through her chest. He raises himself slightly, pushes one hand between them and pulls up her skirt, grabs the waistbands of her panties and tights and roughly pushes them down her thighs to just past her knees. 

She opens her legs as wide as she can against the restriction of the clothing and his fingers slide against her, probing, pushing inside. Her whimpers have become gasps and moans; he mouths and bites his way across her ribs and belly, braces himself with one hand and undoes his trousers with the other. Then he is pushing into her, hard, pumping her, sliding his hand under her and pulling her up as far as he can. She is squeezed tight around him, her legs apart barely enough to allow him in her, and his movement is quick and brutal. When she comes, it is sharp and intense, taking her breath. He follows her quickly, shuddering, exhaling in deep, fast gasps. He is finally still and collapses on top of her. 

Tears leak from her eyes and she bites her lip to keep from sobbing. He raises himself off her, pulls up his pants and trousers, does them up quickly. Then he is on his feet, grabbing his coat, scarf and gloves, and is out the door, leaving Molly lying there shivering, her clothes a twisted mess, her hands covering her face as she cries.

*

It takes her an hour to get herself off the floor and into the hall. There is a fierce ache between her legs, and she knows her back will be bruised tomorrow. She makes a cursory attempt to straighten her clothes and hair. By the time she reaches the locker room, she is battling nausea. She splashes her face with cool water, tries to calm herself enough to gather up her coat and bag. She can’t look at herself in the mirror. There is no way she can face a bus ride home. She calls for a cab.

She tries not to think about what’s happened but it’s no use. As the city flashes past the cab window, she leans her forehead against the cold glass and closes her eyes. She is torn, confused by what she feels. She wants to be horrified, outraged by what he’s done - and she remembers the feel of his curls in her hands, the heat rising up through her, the feel of his fingers inside her. She remembers the sound of his zipper, the hardness of his hand underneath her, lifting her as he pumped himself inside her. She wants to feel humiliated and abused. All she can think is “He fucked me. He fucked me on the floor and I want him to do it again.”

*

Days pass and Molly tries to pick up her life as though nothing has happened. It is a week before she sees Sherlock again. He walks into the morgue with Greg Lestrade to view a body that’s just come in. She keeps herself out of the way, tries not to watch him, tries not to examine his face for...something. Anything. As the men are walking out of the room, he glances at her, looks directly into her eyes, and then he’s gone. 

Her hands shake. The physical impact his mere presence has on her body astounds her. When she closes her eyes, she remembers...everything. And it takes her breath away. 

She goes about her business, does her job, responds to other people normally. Two nights later as she sits alone in her office, closing the last of the files for the day, he appears in the doorway. His coat is already off and he tosses it on a chair, walks to her just as he did before. But this time she doesn’t back away or resist. This time she kisses back, slides her arms around him and holds him, presses herself against him, rubs against his hardness. There are no words exchanged. He runs his hands over her, pulls her shirt loose from her trousers, and slides his hands up over her ribs to her breasts, thumbing her hard nipples through her bra. Then he pushes the bra up over her breasts. He raises her shirt, sucks hard on each nipple, as she gasps and her uterus contracts in response, and wetness soaks her pants. His hands are hot on her skin. His hair smells like sandalwood and rain as she runs her fingers through it. 

His fingers fumble with the button on her trousers and then he is sliding them down her legs. She pulls one leg free. He turns her quickly around and bends her face down over her desk. She hears his zipper and then his fingers pull her pants aside. He goes down on one knee and she feels his tongue licking her, the tip probing lightly between her lips. She spreads her legs wide apart, reaches across the desk and grips the other side tightly. He toys with her with fingers and tongue until she is moaning, pressing back against him, wanting more. Then the lovely pressure of his cock against her opening and the delicious fullness as he pushes into her, slowly, all the way in.

It is slow and easy this time, with subtle twists of his hips, little pauses where he pushes in and shallowly withdraws then pumps her quickly with short strokes as though he’s rooting around for just the right spot. Then back to long, slow stroking until she’s making little uh, uh sounds in her throat and can’t stand any more. She reaches back with one hand, and whispers, “Hard!” and he pounds into her until she screams. She doesn’t feel him come as her own orgasm rips through her, only knows he has from the slowing of his strokes and then the lessening of the fullness in her as he softens, and the sticky fluid beginning to run down her thigh. 

He reaches across her desk and grabs a handful of tissues from the box sitting there, presses them against her as he pulls out. She hears the rustle of cloth as he pulls up his pants and trousers and zips up. She turns her head in time to see him gather up his coat from the chair beside her desk, hears the door close behind him. 

*

Seven days later he catches her in a supply cupboard, takes her up against the closed door, her mouth buried hard against his shoulder to stifle her cries. Four days after that, he finds her in her office again, takes her on her hands and knees from behind. Once or twice a week, he manages to catch her alone somewhere in the building, and fucks her silently, leaving her stunned and sated and too blissful to wonder why it’s all happening. He never talks to her anymore unless it’s to do with his work. He doesn’t smile at her, doesn’t tease or flatter her to get what he wants. Occasionally in passing he will look into her eyes directly, silently. Those glances feel almost more intimate than when his cock is inside her, as if, just for an instant, he is completely open and bared to her. They are the only acknowledgement that anything is happening between them at all. 

He disappears for two weeks and she feels herself sliding into panic, wondering if something has happened to him or if he’s simply decided to end...whatever it is they’re doing. Then he reappears and manages to find her two days in a row, leaving her sore and satisfied again. She tries not to question or look at their arrangement too closely. She doesn’t _have_ him exactly; there’s no relationship, no closeness apart from the sex. But she tells herself she has more of him than anyone else and more than she ever thought she’d have, and tries to be content with that. 

Then one night she’s wakened from sleep to the sound of water running in her bath. Just as she’s gathering the courage to get out of bed and grab the cricket bat she keeps by the bedroom door, she hears the bathroom door open and a figure appears in the doorway. He walks to the other side of her bed and slips under the covers, slides across the bed to her and pulls her against him. He is still slightly damp from the shower, his skin warm and smelling like her hand-milled rosemary soap. He pulls her on top of him, sliding one hand down her body and kneading her arse, burying the other in her hair and kissing her hard. She pulls her legs up and straddles him, rides him for a very long time until she’s satisfied herself twice and elicited, finally, one deep groan from him right before he comes. When she wakes the next morning, he’s gone. 

He still finds her at the lab or somewhere in the hospital. But now, at least once every other week, he slips into her bed in the middle of the night. In the morning he is always gone. She has never found the nerve to ask him about what they’re doing, to mention it at all; it’s as if she’s afraid that if she says the words out loud, it will all magically cease to be real. 

One night she comes home to find him already in her bed, waiting for her. He sits leaning against the headboard, watching her undress. One arm is raised over his head, hand gripping the edge of the headboard. The other is lying open on his leg on top of the blanket. His eyes never leave her as she moves around the room. She slips into the bathroom for a quick shower and when she comes back to the bedroom he is still sitting in the same position, only his eyes are closed. There is something so vulnerable about this pose, something deeply, terribly sad about it. Tears sting her eyes and she blinks them back, wondering at herself. She is loathe to disturb him if he’s asleep, but he opens his eyes, raises his arm and beckons to her. That night he takes her slowly, gently, almost tenderly. Afterwards, as she drifts into sleep, she feels him rise and when she wakes he is, as usual, gone. 

She still can’t bring herself to ask him what’s happening. She is terrified of losing him again, even though she doesn’t really have him, has no idea what this thing is that’s happening with them. Over months, his coldness has mellowed, some of the hardness has slipped away, until she can almost imagine that they are lovers, real lovers. But he still won’t talk to her and the encounters are still brief, silent, as if she is being haunted by some beautiful, randy, rampant ghost. All she can do is accept it, hope that one day his shell will break. 

 


End file.
